The other day I was nearly arrested by two excited policemen in a wood
in Yorkshire. I was on a holiday, and was engaged in that rich and
intricate mass of pleasures, duties, and discoveries which for the keeping
off of the profane, we disguise by the exoteric name of Nothing.
At the moment in question I was throwing a big Swedish knife at
a tree, practising (alas, without success) that useful trick of
knife-throwing by which men murder each other in Stevenson's romances.
Suddenly the forest was full of two policemen; there was something
about their appearance in and relation to the greenwood that
reminded me, I know not how, of some happy Elizabethan comedy.
They asked what the knife was, who I was, why I was throwing it,
what my address was, trade, religion, opinions on the Japanese war,
name of favourite cat, and so on. They also said I was damaging the tree;
which was, I am sorry to say, not true, because I could not hit it.
The peculiar philosophical importance, however, of the incident was this.
After some half-hour's animated conversation, the exhibition of
an envelope, an unfinished poem, which was read with great care, and,
I trust, with some profit, and one or two other subtle detective strokes,
the elder of the two knights became convinced that I really was what I
professed to be, that I was a journalist, that I was on the DAILY NEWS
(this was the real stroke; they were shaken with a terror common
to all tyrants), that I lived in a particular place as stated,
and that I was stopping with particular people in Yorkshire,
who happened to be wealthy and well-known in the neighbourhood.
In fact the leading constable became so genial and complimentary
at last that he ended up by representing himself as a reader
of my work. And when that was said, everything was settled.
They acquitted me and let me pass.
"But," I said, "what of this mangled tree? It was to the rescue
of that Dryad, tethered to the earth, that you rushed like
knight-errants. You, the higher humanitarians, are not deceived
by the seeming stillness of the green things, a stillness like
the stillness of the cataract, a headlong and crashing silence.
You know that a tree is but a creature tied to the ground by one leg.
You will not let assassins with their Swedish daggers shed the green
blood of such a being. But if so, why am I not in custody;
where are my gyves? Produce, from some portion of your persons,
my mouldy straw and my grated window. The facts of which I have just
convinced you, that my name is Chesterton, that I am a journalist,
that I am living with the well-known and philanthropic Mr. Blank
of Ilkley, cannot have anything to do with the question of whether
I have been guilty of cruelty to vegetables. The tree is none
the less damaged even though it may reflect with a dark pride that it
was wounded by a gentleman connected with the Liberal press.
Wounds in the bark do not more rapidly close up because they are
inflicted by people who are stopping with Mr. Blank of Ilkley.
That tree, the ruin of its former self, the wreck of what was once
a giant of the forest, now splintered and laid low by the brute
superiority of a Swedish knife, that tragedy, constable, cannot be wiped
out even by stopping for several months more with some wealthy person.
It is incredible that you have no legal claim to arrest
even the most august and fashionable persons on this charge.
For if so, why did you interfere with me at all?"
I made the later and larger part of this speech to the silent wood,
for the two policemen had vanished almost as quickly as they came.
It is very possible, of course, that they were fairies.
In that case the somewhat illogical character of their view
of crime, law, and personal responsibility would find a bright
and elfish explanation; perhaps if I had lingered in the glade
till moonrise I might have seen rings of tiny policemen
dancing on the sward; or running about with glow-worm belts,
arresting grasshoppers for damaging blades of grass.
But taking the bolder hypothesis, that they really were policemen,
I find myself in a certain difficulty. I was certainly
accused of something which was either an offence or was not.
I was let off because I proved I was a guest at a big house.
The inference seems painfully clear; either it is not
a proof of infamy to throw a knife about in a lonely wood,
or else it is a proof of innocence to know a rich man.
Suppose a very poor person, poorer even than a journalist,
a navvy or unskilled labourer, tramping in search of work,
often changing his lodgings, often, perhaps, failing in his rent.
Suppose he had been intoxicated with the green gaiety
of the ancient wood. Suppose he had thrown knives at trees
and could give no description of a dwelling-place except
that he had been fired out of the last. As I walked home
through a cloudy and purple twilight I wondered how he would
have got on.
Moral. We English are always boasting that we are very illogical;
there is no great harm in that. There is no subtle spiritual evil
in the fact that people always brag about their vices; it is when they
begin to brag about their virtues that they become insufferable.
But there is this to be said, that illogicality in your constitution
or your legal methods may become very dangerous if there happens to be
some great national vice or national temptation which many take advantage
of the chaos. Similarly, a drunkard ought to have strict rules and hours;
a temperate man may obey his instincts.
Take some absurd anomaly in the British law--the fact, for instance,
that a man ceasing to be an M. P. has to become Steward of the
Chiltern Hundreds, an office which I believe was intended originally
to keep down some wild robbers near Chiltern, wherever that is.
Obviously this kind of illogicality does not matter very much,
for the simple reason that there is no great temptation to take
advantage of it. Men retiring from Parliament do not have any
furious impulse to hunt robbers in the hills. But if there were
a real danger that wise, white-haired, venerable politicians taking
leave of public life would desire to do this (if, for instance,
there were any money in it), then clearly, if we went on saying
that the illogicality did not matter, when (as a matter of fact)
Sir Michael Hicks-Beach was hanging Chiltern shop-keepers every day
and taking their property, we should be very silly. The illogicality
would matter, for it would have become an excuse for indulgence.
It is only the very good who can live riotous lives.
Now this is exactly what is present in cases of police investigation
such as the one narrated above. There enters into such things a great
national sin, a far greater sin than drink--the habit of respecting a
gentleman. Snobbishness has, like drink, a kind of grand poetry.
And snobbishness has this peculiar and devilish quality of evil,
that it is rampant among very kindly people, with open hearts
and houses. But it is our great English vice; to be watched
more fiercely than small-pox. If a man wished to hear the worst
and wickedest thing in England summed up in casual English words,
he would not find it in any foul oaths or ribald quarrelling.
He would find it in the fact that the best kind of working man,
when he wishes to praise any one, calls him "a gentleman."
It never occurs to him that he might as well call him "a marquis,"
or "a privy councillor"--that he is simply naming a rank or class,
not a phrase for a good man. And this perennial temptation to a
shameful admiration, must, and, I think, does, constantly come
in and distort and poison our police methods.
In this case we must be logical and exact; for we have to keep watch
upon ourselves. The power of wealth, and that power at its vilest,
is increasing in the modern world. A very good and just people,
without this temptation, might not need, perhaps, to make clear rules and
systems to guard themselves against the power of our great financiers.
But that is because a very just people would have shot them long ago,
from mere native good feeling.